


Hunting the Boar

by Makioka



Category: Sword at Sunset - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Boar Hunting, Hunting, M/M, Shield Brothers, Storytelling, animal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long after the time of Artos, stories are still told of his men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunting the Boar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seascribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/gifts).



> This is the story I initially wrote, but I don't think it quite fulfilled your request, so I wrote a second one that with luck fits better. Hopefully you might enjoy this one anyway!
> 
> Thanks to Isis for her swift beta-ing. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

When the dark has come and swept all before it in the immense and rolling hunger it has to absorb all that is light, it is easy to despair. It is easy to forget that in the spring the sparrow will still chirp, and take wing with a worm in its beak to feed its starvelings, early-born as they are, that there are still boys who with restless urgent haste will leave the bothy walls, leave the dark and the scent of the pigs to run with swift feet into the day. It is easy to forget these things, to see only the Saxon blond of their hair, and the width of their shoulders, and not the darkness of their eyes or the laughter on their mouths, as they let the molten wickness of spring carry them to the caves boys know the best.

She tells herself this as she looks into the fire, eyes thoughtful and gleaming. The fire flickers and still it shows her many things; for the Second Sight is upon her as it was upon her grandmother, and perhaps on all her kith and kin, though what she sees she only half understands, and the names are not names she knows, and the faces are unfamiliar. Then they are here, and she banks the fire for now with heavy sods of earth, and wraps her cloak more firmly round her as she goes into the light.

The boys like to visit her; she is aunt to one, and foster-aunt to the other, and which is which neither she nor they can tell nor do they care to. The winters are easy in these clement parts compared to yester-years that she has not known except in flame, yet still they seem thinner to her, starveling sparrows themselves with knobbly wrists jutting from brown cloth, the same eye-bright that the bird flaunts, and it is in her mind that today she shall treat them. 

How she shall do so is another matter. Spring is only just come, and food is thin on the icy ground; but there is food for the belly, and there is food for the heart, and it is for heart-food they come to her for. She can tell them stories that will make their blood sing, will make their heads pound with the longing to be doing the deeds that she speaks of; then she can cool the fires with a song of the harvest, and the land each man calls his own.

Today though, today she will tell them a true story, true-seen in the fire, true from her heart. 

First though there is the work to be done, the pig to be tended, the floor to be brushed out. She is old, and never married; she has no children of her own to help her. They ask her sometimes with the demanding curiosity of youth where her husband is, had she never married, had no-one asked her, but those are stories that are just for her. They belong in the wooden chest with the one string of amber beads she keeps against hard times and dark times, and in memory of one long lost. 

When they settle by her knee as she works with her cloth, she looks at them with rough affection, and pats one tow-coloured head, feeling the living youthfulness of them flow into her. It is Abrecan who speaks first, he is the younger, the hastier of the two, while Catonius the older is more thoughtful, quieter. “Will you tell us a story?” he demands.

“I will at that,” she answers, but does not hurry to begin. No story worth the telling should be rushed, and she needs time to gather the threads of it to her. 

“Will it be about the great Artos?” asks Catonius with hope in his voice, and Abrecan shoulders him roughly.

“I am sick to death of Artos! You always beg for him. Tell us a story where there is a great hunt, and there is much joyfulness at the close.”

Catonius elbows him back. “Be quiet, you halfwit, and let her tell the story.” He breaks his own resolution in a second, and begs once more for the time when she met Artos himself. Abrecan makes no objection. It is a good place to start from, a good story to tell. 

“I was very young,” she begins (and spares not a moment to grieve that this is how all stories must now begin for her). “No more than five winters old when Artos came riding past, and Father went with him. I had woken early and was gathering sticks. It was the crispest of mornings, the apples were not yet budding on the trees, and aie! when I saw them, their horses were the most wonderful horses that ever were seen, bred of the wind itself, so it seemed.”

She remembers those horses better than she remembers how many winters have passed now, remembers the sight of them, the white horse that Artos sat, and the man with the winged eyebrows that swooped when they saw her by the mulberry tree, hiding from fear of them, and the rough warmth of his jerkin as he hoisted her up to take her back to her mother. (Had she wandered far, she wonders? She cannot now remember.) 

“Their tails were silken, but their flanks were muddy for they had been riding hard through the night, and behind them was a great host, for they rode to war. They talked to my father in low voices, and he was soon saddled and ready for they had brought word that he was needed.”

They're both rapt now. This is the bit of the story that they love the most, the bit that is engraved in her mind so deep that it seems that when all else fades, it must remain. "We knew we would never see Father again," she says.. “My mother, in the way of her people, did not weep on his departure nor rend her garments, but remained with head held high, for he was going to a worthy death and there was no shame in that, though much sorrow. I remember how the marigolds flowered early that year, and my mother tucked a sweet smelling posy of them in his saddlebow." She pauses; the memories grow heavy now, and her mind plays tricks. This is the bit they have been waiting for. "Then Artos made his farewells to our family, and took me from the arms of his friend, and kissed my forehead before he set me down on the ground. I will treasure that moment forever."

 

There are no words she can use to recall the exact sensation, the sadness of his eyes, the bristles of his beard against her cheek.; the sudden sickening knowledge that flooded through her that this man was going to die, a foreseeing that set her to crying. And now as she grows older she begins to doubt what she saw that day. For though Artos and his friend whose name does not come back so easily- Bedwyr? she wonders -- had left their war-host to march onwards while they collected her father, there had been three horses by the gate, as beautiful as the rest but insubstantial as though made of the mist that hung heavy over the hills, and on them three riders. The oldest was gaunt as a hawk, with a scar seamed on his forehead, and a deeper one around his neck, and he looked only at Artos with a loving fierceness in his eyes. It is not of him she will speak, though, or of the emerald ring that gleamed dully on his finger, but of the other two. 

This too they have heard before, and they shiver deliciously each time no matter how warm the air. Abrecan prompts the story onwards. “And then you saw the spirits,” he says eagerly.

She nods. “They were as thin and cold as the wind itself, misty as a drift of snow across barren mountainside, but they smiled. They were like unto each other as brothers, yet brothers they were not, but bosom companions.” The words do not feel like hers, but like they are placed in her mouth like pebbles. Sometimes when she tells stories she feels this weightiness of tongue, and she knows it for the sign of truth. “They were young,” she says quietly, for they had been; Artos had ever had the young by his side, “but they rode with Artos for the final time.”

“Even the dead rode with Artos in his host,” Catonius says, and there was silence for a moment. “And one day he will return,” he adds in a low tone. 

“They rode with Artos that day yes, side by side, though their weapons were mist and they could not bring any with them to the underworld. Still the riding together was what they had lingered for; the first to die waited for the second, and then together they waited for their fellows. Yet that is not the story I’ll tell you today, but a story from when they were alive and hunted their enemies together.” 

“To fight is like a dance that thrills the blood, and sets your feet pounding. To dance with your heart’s partner is to find fulfillment; to hunt with them is to seize the best that life can bring you. To fight side by side -- nothing more could be asked, and it would anger God to beg for more. To find the one who will match you measure for measure is a gift beyond anything.” Then the words cease, for this, too, is her gift.

 

It is a sunny day, the warmth in full blossom on their backs, the scent of heather in the air as Levin tosses a handful of it at his laughing companion who avoids the delicate missiles with ease. “Easier to throw flowers than spears,” Levin taunts and runs to avoid the scathing retaliation he knows he’ll meet. He avoids the ponies grazing on the little grass they can find, though the sturdy beasts would be unruffled by his running.

Gault chases him, revelling in the freedom of the day, the coolness of the breeze on his cheek, and the knowledge that they have nothing to do. Sometimes, rarely, times like this come along, when the endless drilling and training ceases and they can snatch moments that are just for themselves.

When they train with Artos and the Companions they are together, but they are also of the pack and the clan, with no room for anything but thoughts of war. When they are alone, time moves more slowly, like thick honey, and there is sometimes silence and sometimes laughter. But always there is each other, always there is the firm warmth of a friend at your back, who requires only a glance to see the joke. Days like this are like amber beaded on string held up to the sun. 

It is never for long -- there is never enough time -- but when they return to the main camp, they are refreshed and the cool small beer tastes even better. Around them there are friendly jibes at how long they were out scouting the borders of the camp. Bedwyr strums them a note and sings a snatch of A Walk down to the Well, jests that would not be spoken outside of the Companions, but still make them laugh.

Tomorrow they hunt; tonight they prepare for the hunt. However much they glean from the monasteries and the villages, there is always a need for fresh meat, and when they are close by forests, the lure proves too great. Artos enjoys the hunt himself and he is always in the thick of it, whether it is boar or stag, for Ambrosius has not yet met his fate, and no shadow darkens his pleasure. 

In the morning the hounds sense the excitement, and move restlessly, mock fighting with each other and laughing with lolling jaws at the attempts to soothe them down before the hunt. Not all the hounds hunt with them, just those the Romans had referred to admiringly to as the _pugnaces Britanniae_ and exported to strengthen their own breed after facing them in battle. Now their prey is the boar, and the tense excitement runs through the camp.

The small ponies will carry them well enough for this, Artos would never dream of risking their breeding stock on such pursuit, and they do not wear the mail they have collected from the slain corpses of their enemy, not for such a hunt and such a test of bravery. Toughened leather is enough, and the ponies will bear them well enough for this. Each man has his spear, handle newly and freshly bound, wicked tip sharp and ready, and at each side lies a dagger longing for the taste of blood, and the kill today.

Gault jostles closer to Levin, knee brushing as they wait for the order to set off, eyes meeting with renewed excitement. They have hunted many times, but Gault still lacks the kill of the boar to his name, first blood having always gone to another. He tells Levin laughingly sometimes that when you are the youngest of three brothers, and hunt only on foot, your chances of bringing down any large game at all are slim. This he will share with anyone.

Then sometimes he tells of the joy of coursing through the woods, the thick loamy scent of earth mixed with the softening deadness of the mouldering undergrowth, running as surefootedly as any hound, relishing the speed and the power; but not often, and only to friends. 

And finally, for one person only, he will tell the story of how sometimes he can find it in him to hate the hunt as he could never hate war, for his eldest brother died in full cry and for no purpose. But generally these words are kept deep inside, not for the general mourning or the general knowing. This is for them, as all their deepest thoughts are. Yet not to hunt is to risk the charge of over-care for your skin, and that is not a slur they can bear in these times, nor ever ignore. Not when some monks turn away from them, and even their closest friends engage in jests that ring hollow at times.

Levin presses back and hopes that today will yield the fruit of victory for his shield-brother. Then they are off, moving with the swiftness of new gods, or so it feels to them all, as though a charmed wind has caught them and sped them onwards. The dogs bay and race endlessly, providing the trail for them all to follow through the ancient trees and the darkened shade to where the maddened boar wreaks his destruction as he flees. 

Gault breaks away to the left, and Levin has no time to wonder where he is planning to go, for the thrill of the hunt is on him, and as the rest do he gives voice like the hounds, the joy and exultation pounding through his blood, singing through his veins. The dogs are fierce with triumph now, and somehow he is at the front of the hunt, next to Artos, the boar snuffling ahead, galvanised to speed, enraged by the turning of the tables on him who few beasts dare to face.

If perhaps he were not so heart-close to Gault, then he would not even have seen the pale and resolute face in front of them, standing where the boar must gore him, so unexpectedly did it appear; and to Levin it seemed his heart was ready to burst from his chest with fear, fear he had never felt before and which seemed to paralyse his arm. He had faced foes and enemies berserk with the blood-rage, more beasts than men, and stood firm with no fear, only the quiet consciousness of war; but this this struck deep. An abyss seemed to open beneath his feet. Only for a moment, and he was hauling back, ceasing the hunt, acting on instinct that Gault would thank no help and brook no interference, and the other ponies took their lead from his. 

Artos, his open face lined with his own horror, called out his great call, but the stoic face of Gault did not change. He stood in a small natural clearing, close to a tree, almost blending with it, until it was ten to one of a toss of the dice that the boar had not seen him at all. His pony whickered in terror somewhere, not having run far at all. Then at the last possible second he stepped forward, the deadly sharpened spear held firmly in his grip. The boar raised itself, deadly trotters at the ready as though a charger preparing for war. With no failing of courage or purpose, as though by love of the Christos alone he would avoid the tusks, Gault unseamed the boar entirely, letting its own momentum carry it onto his spear, holding his own for a deadly second before throwing himself to one side.

With the little voice left to him he croaked the call of First Kill, and drew his dagger and finished the business. Wearily, as though there was no victory in the kill, no honour in the blood on his knife, he looked up and caught Levin’s eyes, letting him see in that moment what had driven him to this reckless act of courage; let him know too that it had been no act of untainted bravery, but a necessary one. With no thought of how it happened, Levin was there on the ground next to him, sharing his warmth and his nearness.

Yet the boar still remained an emblem of victory; for while every man knows of the madness of battle and the red veil that can come down and close off the world, to pit yourself against the prey of the hunter can be more ghastly and more terrible, and no man can ever question the courage of the one who has slain it in hand-to-hand combat. And quietly to the right of the victor stands he who is only second in bravery. For it is another kind of bravery, to see his closer-than-brother do what must be done and stand back despite all. 

 

She finishes with the traditional formula, the size and strength of the boar, the mighty rejoicing of Artos, and looks round at her audience. Catonius is rapt still, face dreaming of those days before the darkness. Boar are still slain, but not by such men. Abrecan, who loves the details of the hunt (and, with the indiscriminate bloodthirstiness of the young, had hoped for more daring) is less intrigued. But he is still quiet, and thinking, and she is surprised that he says what he does:

"It would be a fine thing to have a friend like that." The next moment he has shaken off the thought and is restless again, having had his fill of stories, eager to be up and stretching his legs. 

Catonius also stretches, visibly discarding the rags of whatever he had been about to say, and thanking her for the story. She is not sorry to have told it. Now is the time for them to talk and think of things deeper than she has told them of before; the time for stories that might die with her to be passed on, not only the stories of Artos and his host and the living light that he promised would live after him and hold back the dark, but of the forgotten who rode with him and the love they had for their cause and one another.


End file.
